Shower Scene

Blearily stumbling into the bathroom this morning, I turned the shower on and felt the nice, warm water, slowly wake me up after a pretty restless night. Sans glasses, I openend my eyes and saw a dark shape on the wall near the shower rod. It was large and it wasn't normally there. My first thought was: Moth? No. Such. Luck. CENTIPEDE!! Huge, horrifying, long-legged, vile, quick-moving, fangs-drooling, put on this earth to horrify and disgust me personally CENTIPEDE!! The scream of horror and revulsion must have been heard for miles. I dashed out of the shower and stood there, wet, soap in my hair, trembling with revulsion. This was a HUGE ONE, too. I'd call it a bantam-weight. I splashed water on it and after a short battle forced it down the drain. Since I assumed that was where it came from I found the most lethal fluid I have (Clorox Toilet Bowl Cleaner) and squirted half the bottle down the drain, too. I still haven't recovered. Of all the insects in Minnesota, centipedes are the ONLY ONE that can freak me out to this extent, where my entire body is wracked with continual waves of revulsion and horror. They freak me out so bad, it literally hurts.

Nothing like some sheer, paralyzing terror to start the day off right!!

P. S. Okay, I truly heart Wikipedia. According to the best website on earth, these are house centipedes. You can read about them here. Apparently, they are beneficial to our homes, and though horrifying in appearance they kill spiders, roaches, termites and silverfish. The discussion page is pretty funny, too, describing people's various experiences with them. One person found one in his shower and had no clue how it could have gotten there. He said: "I am half-convinced they teleport." Another said that they can even kill wasps with hardly any strain.

P. P. S. I'm all about them killing other things in my apartment. Munch away, centipedes, I just don't want to see you or know you are here.

Chi HOT LAY!!

Apparently, the Chipotle in Uptown is THE place to see and be seen. Or, the place to check out a constant and dizzying array of gorgeous men. WTF?!! Who knew? The nurse and I figured the male to female ratio was about 6-1, and just about EVERY guy in there was gorgeous. We sat outside strategically positioned so she could see them coming in and I could see them waiting in line. There were all types of hot guys, too, not just your standard suburban preppie pretty boys. There were model-types, scruffy guys, hipsters, dudes with dreads, a cop built like a brick shithouse (whom The Nurse noticed wasn't actually fat, he had a bullet-proof vest on), preppy guys, surfer guys, punks, roughnecks, etc, etc. WTF?!!

It was good for people watching ALONE, let alone watching the sexy guys who MORE THAN ONCE flashed their nice smiles in my flabberghasted direction. WOW!! I think I have a new favorite hangout!

Why The Nurse Should Pick Up Her Swimsuit and Towel ASAP

"BAD!"

Memorial Day Massacre: A Retrospective and a New Resolution

I just got off the phone with one of my friends and it made me realize something. I haven't been doing a good job of maintaining ALL of my friendships lately. A few of my friends have become SPECIAL OCCASION friends; basically the equivalent of HOLIDAY FAMILY. The people you only see when it's someone's birthday. I forgot that I used to be the one that kept some of those friendships together. I used to be pushy and aggressive with friends, forcing the bonds to remain strong and always inviting EVERYONE to things that we would do. There are a few people I have lost touch with lately and I don't like it. These are people I really care about.

I made a resolution last year around this time. Remember the Memorial Day Massacre, when I had the worst hangover of my life that lasted 3 days? I can honestly say that I have only been DRUNK (notice all-caps?) once since then, and that time resulted in nothing more than mild bed-spins. So I call that a success. My next resolution will be to put back together what I have let (through sheer LAZINESS) fall apart, more or less. Particularly with 2 people.

Don't get me wrong, there are others that things have fallen apart with that I think is for the best. I'm just not the person they remember and they are the people I remember. I was at my most self-destructive when I was around them (and was reminded very recently that if I get around them I STILL AM) and though they pine for the "good old days" I heave the largest sigh of relief in the WORLD that it's all behind me and that I am not that pathetic freak anymore.

All of that aside I am going to start small. There are 2 people that I am going to mend fences with, two people I really care about. Two people I want to try to see more of. One of them may actually need my help. The last resolution worked out, why not this one?

H-O-T!!!

It's so fucking hot right now I think I may be risking my health typing this short blog entry about it. The A-C is whirring away in my bedroom and I'm in the stifling living room. If I weren't broke I would go to a movie just to escape. You see, we have had a record-breaking Memorial Day weekend. Hottest on record!! Lucky us. For me, I am sincerely wishing for global COOLING not warming. We had a wimpy-ass winter and the hot, humid, buggy, sweaty, blow my brains out NOW weather strts EARLY?!! I will from here on out be summering in Antarctica! FUCK THIS WEATHER!! [Passes out in a sweaty pool on keyboard]

Crazy Boredom?

Not yet. I thought for sure once school was out I would go insane with boredom and get really depressed. It hasn't happened yet, but it HAS been less than a month. To tell you the truth I am in the process of trying my hand at a feature length screenplay. To that end, I am trying to accomplish some research that will include a trip to Louisville, KY in the near future. I am also planning a trip to NYC with my friend Mack in the fall to see "Wicked". So maybe the key to avoiding crazy boredom is making plans.

I also got dragged into some stupid drama yesterday. One of my friends, Scorpio, sent me a terse email accusing me of not letting her know that her ex-boyfriend was back in town and doing very well for himself. This was confided in a mutual friend who totally busted me out. I sent a reply, but didn't take her bait. She is with a new guy and has his child but has always been obsessed with her ex. I refused to fuel her obsession because I am not that person anymore. I am happy with the maturity that most of my friends exhibit and none of it involves needless drama. In fact, I can say that my life has been refreshingly devoid of interpersonal drama for the past year or more. One of the main reasons Scorpio and I haven't been getting along or speaking lately is because she hasn't changed. She's still mired in that drug and alcohol-fueled drama that marked the majority of my twenties and made them the waste of time they were. Is this one of the hallmarks of adulthood, being over drama and just rolling your eyes at it? Accroding to Carrie Bradshaw another one is delayed gratification, which I am still working on.

Haxan and Mimi

Gavin

The Depression Quadrilogy

I wrote the stuff below at work in the midst of a raging depression. Emailed it to myself to be placed here. It's a bit like taking all of my clothes off and standing in front of a crowd, but here's what goes on in my head when I'm depressed, in four parts. Hopefully, people can relate to it.

Part One: Maudlin
God, I really just hate this. I hate how I feel. I hate having no energy to do anything but sit and stare at the tv in my dirty apartment with dirty dishes and dirty laundry and still being tired enough to go to bed even though I have expended NO energy doing the things I should. I hate feeling like I have nothing to look forward to. I hate feeling useless, like if I was gone it would barely cause a ripple anywhere. Someone else would rent my apartment, someone else would be sitting in my cube, my cats and DVDs would be divided among my relatives and someone else would take over my queue here at work. I feel like I don't matter, in the scheme of things. I have no family, I have no legacy, I have nothing. I have even thought lately that I should try to adopt a kid. That's a big laugh, right? They'd never give me one. I just-- I'm so tired of being completely selfish and self-obsessed and feeling like nothing I do really matters. At least if I was raising a kid I could have something to motivate me, something to force me out of bed every day someone ELSE to obsess over besides myself.

I know that if I dropped dead in my apartment it would be days and maybe weeks before anyone noticed and that is the most horrifying, empty feeling. I have even though lately that I should check in with my friend The Nurse once every other day or so just so she knows I am still alive. If she doesn't hear from me one of those times, she should immediately assume I am dead and call the coroner to remove my body.

Sorry. It's just a cancer and I need to get all of this out. I know, I know, what makes me so fuckin special, right? God, depression is so god-awful maudlin and tired. It's just so-- NINETIES!! What I should really do is channel all of this angst into something useful creatively but fuck if I know what it is.

Part Two: Confession
One more thing. I think I'm afraid of my neighborhood. Or at the very least I use that as an excuse as to why I rarely leave my apartment. I'm afraid I'm going to get robbed, shot in the crossfire or beaten up simply because I am white or because I am gay. I suddenly feel like I have been stripped bare naked by admitting that, but it is the god's honest truth. I am afraid of all kinds of horrible things happening to me if I am not going to work or if am walking around alone. The only place I truy feel safe these days is when I am home with the door locked and my curtains drawn. I even feel like a stray bullet may hit me when I am sitting on my couch in my living room but only if I have the blinds up.

Part Three: Dementors
The Dementors from Harry Potter are the perfect symbol for depression. They float around harassing you and suck your life force; they make you terrified, they make you feel like you will never be happy again and the best way to battle how they make you feel is chocolate. The way to defeat them is with confidence and most importantly, anger like gasoline with happiness as the match. I'm going to get through this, one way or another. My depression is making me afraid of things around me. It's making me afraid of the things that will make me feel better. It wants to exist. It's like being possessed by a demon, one that uses your fears and self-esteem issues to take root and hold on.

Part Four: Chocolate
Took a cue from Harry Potter. I had some chocolate. I feel better now.

Anniversa-BANG!!!!!

So this one's from the archives, but I absolutely have to commemorate the [INSERT HORRIFIED GASP] TEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY of one of the stupidest experiences of my young, destructive twenties.

May 4, 1996
I try to tell myself that things will be different this time. It’s me, The Italian Stallion and Blondie hurtling down the highway toward Ridgedale again, but so much has changed. I’m homeless now, Blondie is living with her grandmother and The Italian Stallion has a gun. A BIG gun. It’s a 44 Bulldog Special. 44s always did the most damage to zombies heads in Resident Evil. But this is 1996. I won’t know about Resident Evil for at least 2 more years.

Blondie is aiming the gun at the floor of the car, a manic gleam in her eyes. I’m freaking out at her. “Don’t you pull that fucking trigger. I WILL FUCK YOU UP!!” Who knows what will happen? We are flying down the freeway at sixty miles per hour. To this day no one has been able to explain to me what would have happened if she blew a hole in the passenger side of that car as we were driving. She eventually passes the gun back to The Stallion who shoves it back in his backpack. He gives me his, “No harm done” smile.

Later that night, we are in a darkened theater, “Leaving Las Vegas” flickering on the screen. During a boring part, I notice that The Stallion has the damn thing in the theater. I roll my eyes again. Does he think we’re going to get held up in Minnetonka? For what god-forsaken reason does he have the damn thing anyway? Another suburban white boy playing gangster.

It’s dark when we get out of the depressing movie and we all want to get drunk. Nothing new for us. Maybe we found the brutal images of Nicholas Cage drinking himself to death particularly inspiring. The Stallion has a fake ID so he scores us a bottle of Bacardi Limon and some of those fruity Jack Daniels things. Where to drink becomes the dilemma. Normally we’d just go hang out in a field somewhere and get “shitty” as we call it. But, this being Minnesota and all, the beginning of May doesn’t necessarily mean warm and balmy. There is a fine mist sifting down. I know my mother is not home at the moment. She goes to her boyfriend’s home up north every weekend. We head to Da Grove and try to break into the home I am not welcome in at the moment. We fail. We eventually end up at the Starlite Motel in Hilltop, a tiny, trailer-park ridden suburb I never knew existed until I opened the dingy curtains and saw the water tower.

May 5, 1996. Cinco DeMayo
A few hours later (past midnight), we are drunk as hell and completely out of liquor. The Stallion says that he and I should go back to his Aunt’s house and get his spare bottle of Captain Morgan’s. Blondie should wait at the hotel and we should leave her with the gun to “protect herself”. It makes perfect sense to me, even though this is a sleepy suburb of Minneapolis where you can probably walk down the street naked with hundred dollar bills strapped to your body and the most that will happen is someone will call 911 to send the paddy wagon because they are highly offended.

I try standing as The Stallion loads a fourth hollow point bullet into the hand cannon. He normally keeps three in there, he told me. He adds a fourth in case Blondie needs to use it while we are gone. Then, he reasons, when he comes back, with the dead intruder on the floor minus a face, his trusty Bulldog will have the usual 3 bullets in it and all will be right with the world. Again, it makes total sense to me as I sit cross-legged on the bed across from him. He is showing Blondie how to use it. He aims. He pulls the trigger.

The noise. The smoke. The fire coming from the barrel that just singed me. There is nothing else. My ears are damaged beyond repair because there is some kind of weird warbling hum. MY GOD THE ROOM IS FULL OF FUCKING SMOKE!! FIRE FIRE!!

But something else has happened. Pause. Rewind.

BANG-fire-smoke-slight jerk in my body-hummmmm...

The fire from that gun really burned me. Even through the pillow on my lap. No. Something is wrong. Very wrong.

“Youjustfuckingshotme...”

“No, I didn’t.”

I pull the pillow off my lap and the cotton stretches into the hideous wound just above my knee. Panic, screaming, tears. Oh my god I’m going to fucking DIE!! I just got shot. People DIE when they get shot. It’s all over. The Stallion is talking about leaving and how we shouldn‘t mention his name when the cops get there. I start screaming in rage when I see him giving Blondie a passionate goodbye kiss by the door. Amazingly no one has gone for the phone which is right there. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLES CALL THE POLICE!!”

Blondie shuts the door and loses it. “Ohmygoddude, ohmygoddude, ohmygodude...”

“BLONDIE GIVE ME THE FUCKING PHONE!!”

I call 911 and explain. Just been shot. Some godforsaken motel in Hilltop. I’m going to die. Please help. No. The guy who did it is gone. Don’t let me die. God it fucking hurts. Jesus, I’m still drunk. Don’t let me die. I’m never going to walk again.

The cops are there in about 30 seconds and they promptly point their guns at me. Shit, they’re here to finish me off, I raise my shaking hands in the air. The cops rush in and Blondie is a blonde blur going out the door. I don’t see her again that night. One big cop sends the other bed flying against the wall with a powerful kick and points his gun at the dust bunnies on the floor beneath it. Another kicks in the bathroom door. They look vaguely disappointed as they come to me and demand that I tell them who did this. I start sobbing and flailing saying that “I don’t know, I don’t know...”

A few seconds later the paramedics arrive and the cops are shooed away. They strap me on some blue plastic thing and carry me out. We’re on the second floor of one of those open air motels. A crowd has gathered down below. They carry me headfirst down the stairs, my bare feet catching the frigid, misty wind. I am at about a 45 degree angle, but I’m strapped in pretty good and these guys are strong. They toss me in an ambulance, strap an oxygen mask over my face to get me high and then ask me what hospital I want to go to. Since I’m still drunk and rapidly becoming woozy and light-headed from the pure oxygen I mumble something about the hospital I was born in. They ignore my request and we go bumping along to Hennepin County Medical Center in the heart of Murderapolis, sirens wailing.

It’s about 3AM when we arrive and there’s a lot going on. People OD-ing, drunks, angry fistfights, one guy comes in covered in blood and has to be tied down by five cops, all the while saying: “Stop-it-stop-it-stop-it-stop-it...” Even when he is sufficiently trussed up and left alone, he continues “Stop-it-stop-it-stop-it-stop-it...” I am shoved into a tiny curtained-off cubicle and left alone.

I’m still drunk. Someone behind the curtain on my left is crying.